


an autumn court

by elfblooded



Category: Original Work
Genre: Fairy Tale Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:41:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25949002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfblooded/pseuds/elfblooded
Summary: there are so many ways to find faeries.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	an autumn court

_i._

It’s fall, so the leaves are absolutely glorious. They’re all shades of saffron and vermillion and cardamom and topaz and ruby and even the ones that have fallen turn the ground into a landscape covered with explosions of color. The air is just the right degree of crisp, where you can’t quite see your breath but breathing tastes good and makes you feel more alive. 

_ii._  
The path is something that needs sneakers or hiking boots, with gnarled roots and rocks in the way. A stream runs nearby with cold, clear water curling around the stones in its way. There’s a log that’s fallen across it and has been covered with patches of moss, but you could still climb across it if you were careful. The bottom of the water doesn’t have any sand or mud, but is instead filled with smooth stones, and stepping into the water gives you a shock as the cold shoots through your feet and up to your ankles. When you go back to the path, it’s just packed dirt, and the occasional rough steps make out of rocks for the really steep bits. The trees reach high above your head and go on for ages on either side, although you can see a ring of mushrooms to your left. 

_iii._  
When you’re walking, your shoe catches on something that doesn’t feel like a rock; you look, and there’s an old, dirt-encrusted key made from rusted iron. It’s heavy and looks like the lock it would fit is simple, as the key is old-fashioned and only has three prongs. It’s been lying in the dirt long enough that you don’t think it’s stealing to scoop it up and place it in your pocket. You keep walking, and eventually your toe kicks a cup. It isn’t a glass; it resembles a chalice of sorts, an old goblet, that might have been brass if not for the stains covering every inch of its surface. Picking it up, it’s empty except for a few dead leaves and twigs, which you shake out. There are a few etchings near the rim that might have been an inscription, once; but you cannot for the life of you make out what it could have said. 

_iv._  
You continue walking with the cup and key, and come across the stream, only it’s turned into a river. It’s flowing more quickly, and drowns out the rushes of the wind in the leaves. You take off your shoes and socks and roll up the cuffs of your jeans before stepping in, and you let out a giddy shriek at how cold it is. You end up kneeling in the water to try and wash the key and cup. You get the dirt off of the key, but the rust remains; You spend almost ten minutes scrubbing at the cup, first with your hands, then with your sleeve, then with fallen leaves, until you can see that the cup is tarnished brass. You still can’t read the inscription, but you can make out a few letters, and a word that’s either stream or gleam, depending on how you squint. You cross the river, and feel a shudder rush over you, and think you may be getting cold. Soldiering on, you keep following the path, and you think you may feel eyes on you. 

_v._  
You quicken your pace, and stop when you see a small hut sat directly in the middle of the path. It’s old, and when you try the door, it’s locked; but the key in your pocket fits, and the door swings open, the hinges letting out a squeal of protest. When you walk in, your bare feet feel something soft, and you look down to see that you’ve scattered a line of salt. Feeling a sense of unease you can’t explain, you shut and lock the door, then carefully scoop the salt back into the line. There’s an ancient bed that releases a cloud of dust when you sit on it, but it’s better than spending the night on the ground; and so you fall into an uneasy sleep. Several times during the night, you wake up thinking that you’ve heard laughter right outside, but you never look. When morning comes, you leave the hut and shut the door behind you, locking it again; There are scratches in the wooden door. You look at the iron key, and place it on the ground nearby, pushing it into the dirt so it will not be blown away if another person finds themself needing shelter. 

_vi._  
Squaring your shoulders, you walk ‘round the hut and continue on the path, without shoes or socks, and clutching the goblet in your palm. You walk for either minutes or hours, and then you come across the fence. It’s actually more of a wall; an enormous hedge grown higher than you’re tall, stretching as far as you can see in either direction. There are thorns running through the leaves, flowers growing out, and deep, deep within you think you can see a glimmer of light. To both your right and left are fairy rings, mushrooms growing in perfect circles. This place does not belong to your kind, but the light through the hedge is entrancing, and you climb over, even as the thorns tear at your clothes and open bloody scratches on your hands. 

_vii._  
As soon as you land on the other side, you see that you’re in an open, grassy field that’s perfectly round, and surrounded completely by the hedge. You can hear whispering all around you, almost like wind in the trees, but not quite; walking forwards, the sun seems to brighten, and the flowers scattered about almost glow in their vibrancy; there are more fairy rings, unnaturally perfect, and in the very center of the glade is one small, perfect ring surrounding a platform with an indented center. You place the cup on the platform, feeling as if you’re in a dream, and it fits perfectly. All of the leftover dirt seems to turn to mist, leaving a shining, golden goblet and a sense of approval surrounding you, and people appear from the sides of the hedge, beckoning to you, inviting you to dance.

**Author's Note:**

> should I be writing the next chapter of _Brought Down by Them_? Yes. That's it, no justification.


End file.
